We have made it to Makeni—and found an Internet café! It seems like an incredible change from Kono—where the heaviness of the war hangs over the city like a thick fog. The last week has left me with more questions than answers, more uncertainties than insights. Mostly it leaves me feeling like I don’t know what I think or believe about anything—which is usually a good sign of learning.

In Kono, we met Rebecca. Rebecca is 20 years old. She had a beautiful smile and her hair was braided and sticking out across her head. She nursed her baby as she recounted her experience in the war. She has a 7 month old…she also has a 7 year old, from when she was raped in the bush during the war. She began her story by saying how when the rebels first came she was with her mother—her mother cried and cried and was almost killed trying to save her—her mother pleaded with the rebels saying “please, this is my only daughter,” but she could not stop them. Right before she was finally taken, her mother washed her feet and face with water as a way to protect her—as a way to say “god go with you.” I imagine it was the memory of that moment that kept Rebecca going, gave her the strength to get out of the bush, gave her the strength to continue living, gave her the strength to have a child in the bush—a child she took care of and loved and raised—a child that was the result and living memory of the defilement of rape and sexual slavery. Rebecca, too, fought. She burned houses. She was injected with cocaine. She did escape. But, when she finally found her mom, her mother refused her. To this day, her mom and sisters still only call her “rebel.” When she reached this part of the story, she could not continue. She began crying. I, too, shed tears. Where is healing to be found in stories like Rebecca’s? There was nothing I could say or do.

It is important to understand the complexities of the situation in Sierra Leone. I often have a hard time wrapping my mind around the atrocities carried out at the hands of children—but they were, as many have said, “the worst of the killers.” Reintegration is a journey. To accept the person who killed your family, burned your village, raped your grandmother back into your community is a tremendous challenge. And the way Sierra Leoneans are finding ways to live side by side continues to amaze me.

As we walked through a small village, Tombudu, we ran into a humanitarian worker. He explained that he was getting the tour of the village from a former RUF and former CDF. It’s hard to imagine it, but that is the truth found in almost every village across Sierra Leone. I wonder how reconciliation will be sustained—how peace will be cultivated in the hearts of the coming generations. Is it a sustainable peace when the imminence of violence drives people to accept former combatants back into their homes? So many people we have talked with have said, “There is no other option. We must move forward.” It takes remarkable courage and wisdom to begin rebuilding communities, victims and perpetrators side by side, but the journey toward reintegration and reconciliation is a long one.

I wonder how Rebecca will find peace. I wonder, too, how her children—those whose father’s were rebels, will remember the war. What peace is being built in the long-term? There is still a strong stigma around “rebel babies.” I wonder how those children will be raised—how their memories and stories will impact the generations to come.

There is a strong sense of community in Sierra Leone—it is an unbelievable resource for peace. People understand their interconnectedness—they have a tradition of “Palava huts.” Small, circle huts where villages came together to work through a problem, to make decisions as one body. Their dependence on one another for life—the way they recognize the need for each individual has led to spaces where sharing, where harmony, where conflict transformation has been built into the social fabric of their villages. It is easy to see the disparity between cities like Freetown and villages like Myama in the Kono district. The capacity people have to live together is an incredible testament to the human spirit—to the possibility of reconciliation. But it does not diminish the challenge or complexities that are also seen in these villages. For the women who have been rejected by their families, for the children who are stigmatized for having “rebel blood,” for communities that have found ways to live together—yet still struggle, daily, to find peace—reconciliation does not come easily and the question of Sierra Leone’s future remains.  There is much to learn from the people here—from their emphasis on community, from the relational accountability that becomes so strong in places where interconnectedness brings life. They recognize their dependency on one another and strive to work together—even in the most difficult situations—as a way to continue living. I hope I bring the heart, the ears, and the compassion to understand the enormous challenges and enormous steps people are making daily to bring sustainable peace to this country.

Check out today’s Monitor!
Click here to read this story online:
http://www.csmonitor.com/2007/0625/p09s01-coop.html

Headline: Sierra Leone must care for war-crimes victims
Byline: Angela Lederach and Claire Putzeys
Date: 06/25/2007
Freetown, Sierra Leone – When the Special Court of Sierra Leone handed down historic
war-crimes judgments last week, Tamba Finnoh was one of the first to
hear the news.

He is one of the victims of the vicious cruelty used by all sides in
his country’s 11-year civil war: amputation. Mr. Finnoh lost his
right hand and barely escaped with his left in 1997 when rebel forces
caught him in the bush. Today, he is one of the few amputees in the
country fortunate enough to have a job; he serves tea to witnesses
who testify before the court. It is ironic that when defendants are
called to testify during trial, they are treated as witnesses – and
Tamba Finnoh finds himself serving tea to the very men who
masterminded the violence that cost him his hand.

Last week’s convictions of five top commanders from the Civil Defense
Forces and the Armed Forces Revolutionary Council, two of the war’s
three fighting forces on trial, include the world’s first-ever
convictions for solicitation of child soldiers. The judgments have
been rightly hailed as groundbreaking by the international community.
But the fact remains that the rulings will have little bearing on
those most in need of justice – the victims of the war, particularly
those who were brutally amputated. As Finnoh says, “Whether or not
these people are caught or are unpunished, it cannot bring back the
hands.”

Unlike Finnoh, thousands of amputees face the ongoing challenge of
trying to find work to provide food for their families and pay school
fees for their children. Tamba Ngaujah was the first amputee of the
war; both of his hands were cut off by rebel soldiers from the
Revolutionary United Front (RUF) in 1991. Today he lives in a
four-room zinc shack on the side of a steep hill outside Freetown,
with his wife, six children, and two other relatives. He is the sole
provider for his household – no small feat for a man who has no
hands. The RUF trials are still ongoing and judgments are expected in
2008. But even then, Mr. Ngaujah will still be searching for justice.
“Those who have caused these problems, to jail them or do whatever to
them, why can’t [the government] think about the people who suffered
from the war and come to their aid?” he said last week.

In fact, the final report of Sierra Leone’s Truth and Reconciliation
Commission (TRC) issued in 2004 recommended that the government make
reparations to amputee victims, including free medical treatment and
free schooling for their children. Unfortunately, the government has
yet to follow through with the commission’s recommendations – a
source of growing disillusionment here. Sadly, people like Finnoh and
Ngaujah struggle not only with the injustice of the lack of
government benefits, but they also face a daily struggle against
social stigmas: Increasingly, the word “amputee” has become
synonymous with “beggar.”

The government is not bound by the TRC recommendations, and it argues
that it doesn’t have the resources to enact them. Sierra Leone ranks
high on the failed-states index and is notoriously corrupt. But the
government must quell the growing discontent among the war’s victims.
For victims to find peace and a sense of justice, the democratically
elected government must find a way to care for those whose lives were
shattered by the war.

But despite the lack of attention given to war victims, many Sierra
Leoneans we have met believe the current ruling party will emerge
victorious in this August’s elections as the lesser of two evils.

International nongovernmental organizations line the streets of
Freetown, but responsibility ultimately lies with the government. The
international community is not likely to pressure Sierra Leone
through sanctions or other measures. But the issue of reparations is
nonetheless a crucial question that the international community must
consider as it seeks to support stable conditions here and in so many
other troubled areas throughout the African continent.

While the world applauds last week’s historic convictions, Ngaujah
faces a day just like every other day. He will get up, his wife will
dress him in a neatly pressed shirt, and he will climb the steep,
stony slope up to the road. He will make his way into the busy
streets of Freetown. There he will stand patiently, with dignity, for
hours. “Good morning, sir,” or, “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he will say,
hoping a kind heart will drop a few leones in his pocket.

• Angela Lederach and Claire Putzeys are research fellows with the
Voice to Vision project of Catalyst Peacebuilding (
www.catalystpeacebuilding.org ), which is dedicated to gathering and
telling the stories of forgiveness and reconciliation in postconflict
Africa. Voice to Vision field program director Sara Terry contributed
to this piece.

(c) Copyright 2007 The Christian Science Monitor. All rights reserved.

We spent the day with a young female ex-combatant this past weekend. Just as we were about to start our interview, we heard the approaching sounds of singing and clanging on cans. As we looked up, we saw a person wearing a black mask and a black straw outfit, followed by a line of the elder women of the village; They were celebrating. We asked our translator what the occasion was and she replied that they were from the “female society” of the village. We came to realize that this was in fact a village group that practiced female genital mutilation as a means to initiate girls into womanhood.

As we were leaving the village at the end of the interview, we again encountered the celebratory group as they crossed the road from one house to another. Our translator explained further: two young girls had been initiated into the FGM society that morning… when we had initially seen the women, they were celebrating the just-completed initiations. This had taken place while we were there, literally sitting less than 200 meters away.

I have never felt so powerless. Even if I had been standing in the room, what could I have done? These women have nothing but the best of intentions — they believe that without this operation, the girls would not be prepared to marry and  have children. Who am I to say what is right or wrong with a traditional, cultural ritual? But I cannot shake that such violence took place in our presence. But what could I have done? I was a guest in the village, a white woman with a tape recorder…

To learn more about FGM, please visit http://www.unicef.org/protection/index_genitalmutilation.html

Like Sara mentioned, we are currently sitting in the UNDP compound taking advantage of the 4 hours of electricity powered by generators here in Kono.

You could write the story of the war through the daily images of life in Kono: The burned down houses and structures that are now being occupied by families–despite the lack of covering overhead; The devastated infrastructure; The mines–small and large–we pass daily to get from our guest house to the heart of town everyday. It is hard to imagine the violence and suffering that happened on these lands.

As we were passing one of the many burned houses today, I saw corn growing up through the blackened cement structure that remains a memorial of the war–a constant reminder to the people here. There is life growing out of the devastation. In our encounters at the market, in the friendships we are making at the guest house, and in our relationships with those we are interviewing and meeting with, I am constantly astounded by their resiliency and love.

1000 child soldiers were reintegrated into Kono. Reconciliation and healing is still taking place, but the very fact that people have found ways to live together–to move beyond means of violence in what is still a very contentious area is an incredible example of the power of the human spirit.

Today we met with the Paramount Chief and the Chiefs of the Koidu Chiefdom. After we commented on the amount of wisdom and grace he offered to us, Chief Kamanda said, “You people have come here to counsel us out of this war. And now, we also have the wisdom to counsel you.” Indeed, we have much to learn from this land.

today was our first day in the town of Koidu in the district of Kono, after a six hour drive from Freetown yesterday. . . this is the center of Sierra Leone’s diamond mining industry, and it was at the heart of the civil war, a resource-rich area which the rebels finally took over mid-way through the conflict. . . this is the place that made the words “blood diamonds” and “conflict diamonds” infamous. . . as Chief Kabenda, the paramount chief here, told us today: “this war came for kono. It was a senseless war because of diamonds in kono.” I wanted to come here last year, when i was working in sierra leone for international medical corps, but the roads were so bad – it was the middle of rainy season – that it was impossible to get here from where i was, farther east, in towns where the war began.

Angie and Claire wrote an op-ed piece to submit to the Christian Science Monitor and the Boston Globe – it’s about post-conflict justice, based on the news today (Wednesday, june 20) that the special court in sierra leone has handed down the first judgments from the trials of the three groups responsible for the fighting in the eleven-year war here. The judgments today were historic – the world’s first-ever convictions for solicitation of child soldiers. . . angie and claire’s op-ed piece notes the importance of these verdicts – but contrasts these legal results with the ongoing need for reparations for victims of the war. (check back here to read the op-ed piece at a later date. . .)

They wrote a good editorial – and we set off to email it. . . and found ourselves in a classic dilemma in this part of sierra leone. . . the internet server at world vision, one of the ngos working here was. . . down. We quickly set off for irc (the international rescue committee) to see if we could wheedle five minutes on their computer (there are no internet cafes in koidu, i should point out). Their administrator graciously tried to help us – but to no avail. We couldn’t get our com puters to work on their server. . . so we set off for the offices of undp (united nations development program) where we were greeted quite kindly by the security officers, who said we could use the computer, but. . . . the electricity wasn’t on. (there is still no electricity in koidu, five years after the end of the war – if you’re fortunate enough to own a generator, you get power for a few hours a day. . here at the guesthouse where we’re staying, uncle ben’s guest house, we get electricity from 7 pm to midnight). So, here we are at the guesthouse (i’m writing this offline), having dinner – heading back off to the united nations compound, where they promised us that the electricity will be on at 7pm.

If you’re reading this, it’s a good sign – it means we actually found an internet connection that works!

p.s. – for any of you traveling to sierra leone, we heartily recommend uncle ben’s, one of the first places we’ve been able to support a business that is owned by a sierra leonean. The food is amazing, the staff is delightful, and in the morning, we hear birds, the roosters, and children laughing.

pps — yay. electricity is on at the united nations compound, and the internet is working(altho my email server isn’t!). . . when we head back to uncle ben’s, we’re going to sit outside and take in the huge african night sky. . .

The stars are out tonight. The rain has blocked the night sky for the last week—and I had forgotten how breathtaking the African sky is. Today I had time to pause and think. We have seen, heard, experienced so much in the last week—sometimes it flies past and we forget to reflect, decompress, let the experience enter deep in the heart.

From poda-podas and street signs, to sitting—sweat streaming down our backs—in a tight room with a former girl soldier, to walking through the special court with those working on issues of transitional justice, to learning Krio words—the week has indeed been full. I still sit in awe of those we have spoken with. The young girl I met a few days ago who had been taken at the age of 9 into the bush with the RUF. She was made a wife—repeatedly gang raped for 11 years. I have heard stories of women who were raped so brutally that they can no longer control their own bowels—they live, everyday, with the pain of being powerless as their feces drip uncontrollably from their torn bodies. I heard a former child combatant talk about taking a head and placing it on a stick to scare the next villages in order to get food. And other stories—stories that make the hairs on my neck stand up, as the chills ripple through my body.

I have looked into the beautiful faces of the young people we have met with, though they are my peers, their eyes show the age of my great grandparents. Their childhoods were ripped from them.

And somewhere in the midst of all the devastating stories, there are sparks of hope. In bursts of laughter and singing, the life of Sierra Leone is felt. The spirit of so many we have met with continues to astound me. Yesterday, our translator embodied the kind of love and spirit that gives me hope even in the face of unimaginable violence. Her dedication has changed the life of one of the former girl combatants we met with yesterday.

This former combatant was captured as a girl and fought for the RUF in the bush. She, too, became the “wife” of a rebel in order to be raped only by one man, rather than many. She had her first child in the bush—the child also of the commander. She learned how to wrap the cloth around her child so that she could fight and run at the same time. She had an unbelievable mind. Her personality was contagious and I found myself drawn to her spirit, her wit, her strength. Her childhood had also been ripped from her and yet she maintained a spark that gave life to all those around her. The woman translating for us, Monte, had drawn that out, given her hope, shown her compassion and stability. She is loving her back to life.

Monte, too, suffered in the war. When the RUF came to Freetown, they broke into her house. She was with 18 other women and saw all of them defiled, gang-raped and killed–some of the girls were as young as 9. She was spared only because her 3 year old son told the rebels that if his mother was lying, they could kill her. When the rebels could not accuse her of lying, they left. Monte’s eyes shine when she speaks and she moves through the world with grace and dignity. She is re-creating the world, re-newing the world, in the way she loves.

Tomorrow we leave for Kono. In almost all of the stories I have heard, Kono and Makeni are mentioned. Kono was devastated by the war because of the diamond mines—and continues to face a new kind of warfare. Carolyn Nordstrom calls this the “War of the Shadows”—the transnational businesses, the ways borders are blurred in global trade and corruption. There will be more stories there—of violence and degradation. And of hope and rejuvenation.

The moon shone above us tonight as Mohamed, our driver, brought us home. We all looked at the sky together as we drove. “In the U.S. you see that moon. In Guinea you see that moon. In Salone (Sierra Leone) you see that moon. Everywhere there is one moon,” Mohamed said. I hope the stories of the remarkable grace, dignity, and resilience of the Sierra Leoneans we have met will find their way across oceans and borders, where the same moon shines brightly overhead.

We thought it would be helpful to write down some of the little things that we see, hear and smell every day on the street.

1. Poda-podas are the vans that pile in as many people as possible to take them throughout the city. They usually play music, as our driver, Mohammed said “No body goes in the poda-podas if there is no music!” At night, they look like mini party buses as some of them have blue lights on the front or inside.

2. Almost every poda-poda and taxi have sayings painted above the bumper. They all reflect how deeply religion, Christianity or Islam, runs in the lives of Sierra Leoneans. Here is a sampling: “Fear Judgment Day”, “It’s On!”, “Life is Good”, “Who is to blame?”, “God is our Provider”, “In Detail Study of Man and Things”, “Live on Hope”, “Without Struggle There is No Success”. There is also the all-popular “God Bless Islam” and “God Bless”.

3. Traffic is a problem in Freetown. This is mainly exacerbated by the small rotaries throughout the city, the many people that are walk along and across the streets, the frequent stops of the taxis and poda-podas, and the “occasional” car trouble. As a consequence, the exhaust smells are stiffling.

4. Just about every possible space available for advertisement is used up by the cell phone companies: Africel, Celtel, and TiGo. Any other space available is taken by Comium, the communication systems company. Everyone has a cell phone, even those without a physical address…

5. I was so happy to see that there are a few billboards that are not used by the technology companies but by NGOs encouraging caution against HIV/AIDS, corruption, and abuse. Angie’s favorite one states “Hug your child at home, belt them in the car.”

6. Although I have not seen much wildlife here (apparently there is not much in Sierra Leone, even in the National Parks up north), there are quite a few dogs that roam the streets. My only comment is that every dog in Freetown seems to be of the same breed! Short haired, some with black and brown coats, others with white and brown coats. They are beautiful…

7. There is a very strong presence of Lebanese in Freetown, and it seems that they have a good handle on the private sector. We have been to just about every super-market in town, and they are all owned by Lebanese, as are most of the restaurants. Most restaurants also feature Lebanese foods, along with African food.

8. When it rains, most people have umbrellas. Those that don’t tie plastic bags around their heads. We actually got laughed at when at the market yesterday because we were not protecting ourselves from the rain!

At night, the rain drums me to sleep. It is a kind of unmatched power—the rainy season on the West Coast of Mother Africa. I see this same power in the people here—a “resiliency” and “love” as I have heard over and over from the Sierra Leoneans we have talked with. We have only been here one short week and the amount of learning that has happened continues to deeply challenge, overwhelm, and inspire me.

I can still remember clearly the first time I heard about Sierra Leone, the first time a piece of my heart traveled over the Atlantic. I was 10. And like most lessons of peacebuilding, this one happened around the dinner table. I remember laughing heartily throughout the course of the meal with Sam and Emmanuel—two West African practitioners. As a 10 year old, I was drawn to them because they were fun, spontaneous, full of life. And love. We had filled our stomachs on casserole and homemade bread and jam—the gifts of my mother, which seem endless. And then the stories began pouring forth. Like most people I have met who come from oral cultures (I too place my roots with an oral culture—my own heritage)—we wound in circles throughout the meal. I am more comfortable talking in circles–I learn more, I engage more, the nuances are drawn out before me and the space for storytelling emerges. There had been a silence and I felt the gears shift. Sam began explaining his work in Liberia and Sierra Leone. They had worked primarily with ex-combatants—at that time, all children, as young as 8 and 9. All children my age. I heard the stories of brutality—“they were taught to kill people like they killed chickens” was the line I will never forget him saying. I tried to wrap my mind around such a thing. The drugs, the violence, the brainwashing, the nicknames—“Rambo” “Rambo 2.” Words fail me when I remember back to that day. And then I remember Sam, looking over at me, the way his face lit up when he smiled. He also began talking about the work of healing. The first few days of camps that he would run with the children who had gotten out—the ways he and coworkers went into the bush to bring their children home. His own fear, his own capacity to overcome that fear—to find the humanity in these children. “When we left”, he continued, “the kids chased after the vehicle and they were all crying and crying.” I too, cried myself to sleep that night.

I have thought of this place, and these people constantly since that day, almost 13 years ago. It has been a dream to come here, to meet with the children who were my age—my generation. As a 10 year old I would write simple poems about it. As a 15 year old: short essays. As a 20 year old: a thesis. Most importantly, I found relationships across borders with other West Africans and continued to hear the stories—of violence, of suffering and of the long and complex journey toward healing and reconciliation. “You must go to my country,” they would say, “Insh’Allah” I responded to my Muslim counterparts—God Willing. I cannot describe the overwhelming feeling of finally placing my feet on the red clay lands of Sierra Leone. We sat with 24 former youth combatants a few short days a go. They were the voices and the faces of the stories of my childhood. They were my peers. We talked about hip-hop, about food, about children (piken’ as they say in Krio). We talked about the war.

In the West we like boxes. We want a box for victims. We want a box for perpetrators. We want a box for justice. We want a box for peace. We often fail to recognize the layers, the complexities, the way relationships and journeys weave in and out of time and space—braiding together a complex, yet beautiful tapestry of life. As we met with men who had been amputated—a method of torture used specifically in the Sierra Leonean war—I struggled to understand the enormous task of healing, of reconciling. There was profound wisdom in their reflections. I sat, on a steep hillside overlooking a small mountain range—the Atlantic Ocean in the background—with these peacebuilders. As Claire wrote about Edward’s reflection: “Reconciliation and forgiveness is not an event, it is a process” Healing takes a long time and comes in many phases. I sat, thinking on his words. I know very little of the kind of healing and journey he was speaking of—I could only sit in the presence of his voice and spirit, there was no way for me to truly understand the power of his words.

I thought of my peers who we met under two Kum trees—trees that reach high in the sky, and branch out into canopies above. In Ghana, Kum translates as shade, as covering, as a space of safety. I thought of their suffering and victimization. I thought also of the stories of brutality and violence they told—their own perpetration of suffering. I sat with Tamba for a while and then asked how it is that reintegration is even a possibility. He turned from the view of the hillside to face me and smiled. “Well, you know Angie, the thing we have here in Sierra Leone that I think is unique is love. Salone (Sierra Leonean) love is big. The thing about this war is that Sierra Leoneans were killin’ Sierra Leoneans. And at the end of the day, we are not left with victims or perpetrators—because we are all brothers and sisters. We are all Sierra Leonean.”

A dear friend gave me a moleskin journal. She has written quotes throughout the pages and I carry it with me everywhere. It is here that I keep notes from interviews, it is here that I write down musicians, different Krio words, signs I see on the street corners, small reflections. Today, as I turned to write the words of Tamba, I found a quote she had left me: “The first task in approaching another people, another culture, another religion, is to take off our shoes, for the place we are approaching is holy; else we may find ourselves treading on people’s dreams. More serious still, we may forget that God was there before our arrival.” (Bishop Kenneth Craig). I feel the warm, red earth set fire to my feet as I tread these lands. I pray for the humility to tread lightly. I pray for the vulnerability that comes when my naked feet touch this holy place. With the voices of my childhood storytellers always fresh in my mind I begin this journey—the spirit of their stories guiding my heart: walk with love, walk with humility, walk with grace in this beautiful land.

We met with Edward Jusu Abu, Program Coordinator for Children Associated with the War (CAW), in Freetown on Friday afternoon. They were the first indigenous NGO in Sierra Leone and the first NGO to work with ex-child combatants, starting in 1993. The title of this blog is a quote from our interview with him.

The truth of this quote has never rung more true than with our interview on Saturday. We went to the home of the war’s first amputee, Tamba Ngoujah, and sat with him and his family. His family is comprised of his beautiful wife, six children and some cousins. I counted 11 in all living in the zinc shack, built right into a steep hillside. This man lost both hands and is lucky to have survived his wounds. He continues to struggle daily not only due to the physical hardship of daily routine, but mainly because he cannot work and cannot provide for his family.

When the Truth and Reconciliation Commission finished their work three years ago, a recommendation was put forth to provide reparations to the amputees. The war has become known for amputations, among other atrocities, as the rebels continuously amputated one or both hands because people had used their hands to vote and put the government they opposed into power. But there has been no restitution. The great majority of amputees are not able to work and have been forced to beg on the streets to find money for their families.

Tamba said that he had not chosen vengeance for what had been done to him because of his religious convictions and because it would serve him and his family no good. But not having chosen vengeance does not mean that he has forgiven the men who chopped off his hands. He explained that he is ready to forgive, but cannot forgive, cannot heal until he is able to forget his situation. This will not happen so long as his life continues its hardship, so long as the government continues to ignore its responsibility to help its victimized citizens.

Unfortunately, “amputee” has become a synonym for “beggar” in the eyes of the community (in Freetown, certainly, perhaps in other areas of the country as well). Tamba and his wife went to a store to buy the zinc slates to build their house. He was immediately shooed out of the store until Tamba was able to explain that he was at the store to buy materials; the owner believed that he had only come into the store to beg for money. Through it all, Tamba retains an incredible sense of dignity, and he does not beg. He stands on the street corner and hopes that someone will drop “small-small” (small change) into his pocket as he greets each person that passes him with a “good morning” or “good afternoon”.

We go see (see you later in Krio),

Claire

It is unbelievably humid… The only disappointment I have thus far is that we have yet to be caught in torrential downpour… we are, in fact, here during the rainy season. I have been told that we will see more rain when we travel up north to Makeni and Kono over the next two weeks.

A few weeks before arriving in Sierra Leone, I saw part of a program on an evening news show about parents who had chosen to meet with, and forgive, their daughter’s killer. I have found that the automatic reaction for many in the U.S., and perhaps other countries, is “I could never forgive the person who murdered/victimized a loved one.” As difficult as it is to envision, one can never know what they need to continue moving forward after such an experience. The mother explained that it was the only way that she could find peace – that she had to meet and forgive this man in order to continue living her life.

We have found in our interviews that Sierra Leoneans are fantastically strong-willed and wise people. Those that we have spoken with thus far say that they had to forgive the people that committed atrocities during the war and accept them back into the community in order to make peace in their community and country, that there was no other option. Sierra Leoneans are very devout people, both Christian and Muslim, and many have spoken about the teachings of their faith in aiding their personal forgiveness process. We have also heard that forgiveness is necessary for the harmony of the community, and the well-being of the community is a vital component for Sierra Leoneans. Communal harmony is perpetually given greater priority than individual well-being. But we believe that there must be something deeper about Sierra Leonean culture that incorporates forgiveness as a natural component of it. This is not to say that forgiveness to perpetrators has come easily to any person affected by the war, but it seems to have come more quickly and easily. I do, however, have a bit of skepticism about whether forgiveness has been pressured by the community or the churches (I cannot speak for Angie or Sara), and how many people have actually achieved true forgiveness. We have certainly met some amazing men and women who have and we hope to continue to be enlightened as the days go on.

We have met with a fairly diverse selection of people from different organizations: Action for Child Protection, Special Court of Sierra Leone staff members, different religious leaders, Children Associated with War, and many ex-combatants. Thursday was an exhausting and exhilarating day, as we first went to Parliament to see the passing of three bills for women’s rights concerning domestic violence, inheritance, and early marriage. It was so inspiring to be surrounded by such courageous women and to hear their endorsement of the bill. These women have much work ahead of them, however, as one male member of parliament stated that he thought that Sierra Leone was not ready for such a bill, for women to be granted such rights.

Thursday afternoon was spent with 24 ex-combatant young men and women. I am still trying to process all of the information and emotions that passed that afternoon. I cannot even begin to imagine what has taken place internally for them to be able to sit with us to tell us their story, how they were captured, beaten, imprisoned, forced to become a wife of a rebel commander, how they watched their parents be killed, how some were beautifully reunited with family after the war, but how others were not. Forgiveness is such a crucial detail – being forgiven by their communities and personal forgiveness for what they may have done to others, but also forgiveness to those that did them harm. It is certainly not without this forgiveness on all levels that they and their communities will be at peace. We can only hope that this will also form a stronger nation that will not allow another civil war like this one to take place.

It’s going on 11 pm, the end of our first day here – Angie and I just commented that we can’t believe it hasn’t even been 24 hours yet — mostly a day of setting our schedule for the week and taking Angie and Claire to some of the places I loved last year, my first visit here.. It was on that trip that I first learned a bit about the incredible story of forgiveness that followed Sierra Leone’s horrific war. It was what made me want to come back, what made me want to learn more from Sierra Leone, and from Africa, about this remarkable grace of forgiveness – how hard-fought it can be to attain it, how transforming it can be once it settles in the heart.

A few weeks ago, when we met for a brainstorming session in Maine with Libby, she asked each of us to ask ourselves what we love about this project, what questions we love, what we bring with us as we begin this work. I had no time to write before I left, but on the long plane flights here, I had many quiet hours to consider again what brings me to this work, and I will share a bit of it here. . .. I come to this beginning at the close of a period of upheaval in my own life, a years long effort to deal with a relationship quite close to my heart. It has been a time to learn about forgiveness, to choose to forgive. And I thought I had learned something about forgiveness, until earlier this year when I found I was still cloaked in sorrow over what had been. I thought forgiving, and continuing to love, was enough. But on a very lonely and gray February day, I realized that I had not truly forgiven anything. I found that deep within myself, I still wanted the person I thought I had forgiven to be accountable to me – to fix what had been broken, to do something to repair all that I had forgiven. And, of course, that is not forgiveness, because forgiveness comes without conditions, it does not define outcomes; it frees the other to find his or her own answers in the way that they must and will be found. On that morning, I found myself offering up a wordless asking to be forgiven myself – for the lurking pride and self-righteousness that made me think I knew anything at all about forgiveness, when in fact I’d only found a pale shadow of it. That was the day that the sorrow, which had lingered so long, began to leave. I found myself beginning to learn, just at the very beginning of learning, about the true grace of forgiveness – that which truly leaves all behind.

It is ridiculous to compare the challenges of my own life with what happened here in the war. I am not trying to do so, would not dream of it. But my own wrestlings with forgiveness and what it means, draw me towards a people who have had to deal with the aftermath of a war marked by unthinkable atrocities, towards a people who have in so many ways chosen paths of forgiveness and reconciliation. I want to learn from them. I have much to learn.

I believe in art’s social presence – as breaker of official silences, a voice for those whose voices are disregarded, and as a human birthright
- Adrienne Rich

1. Wittgenstein and the early desert Fathers used to write reflections numerically—the format allowed more fluidity of thought and less structure. I’ll let my mind wander this way as well.
2. It’s hard to know where to begin with this reflection. Reading the application for voice to vision in my inbox two months ago seems both near and far in my mind. A lot has happened in a short period of time.
3. When I think about how the project came together, I am usually speechless. A few conversations. A few connections. A piece of writing. A phone call. And somehow I found myself in Portland, Maine sharing myself deeply with women I had only known for a few hours, planning the first of three trips to West Africa.
4. I had no words when I returned from that trip. “How was it?” I know this will be a question asked of me on return from Sierra Leone—I’m sure my response will be similar. It is difficult to capture and explain moments that “pop,” and when the pieces of my life fit together so well, I am left speechless.
5. I am excited to work with women.
6. I am excited to share, to laugh, to cry, to sit in silence, to understand, to question, to learn.
7. “Every profession has its own music and dance.” Adama Doumbia (a Nigerian) writes.
8. I am excited to dance in and out of professions, relationships, and places.
9. I love new languages, new foods, dusty roads, new understandings of “time,” of spirit, of life. I can’t wait to learn the nuances of language; I can’t wait to learn the handshakes, the greetings, the stories, and the wisdom. I can’t wait to feel the exhaustion that the intensity of being in a new culture brings.
10. Kono, Makeni, Freetown—names of places I have longed to see since I was a young girl and West Africans told stories around my table.
11. I am excited to break my first kola nut with a paramount chief, dancing, drumming, poetry readings.
12. I am thankful for the opportunity to go back—to return—to see the people who will no doubt leave me changed, new, reborn once more. And then to meet new faces, see new places.
13. I can only imagine the heat. The dust. The mosquitoes…
14. …the satisfaction of a bottle of cold Coca-Cola on a hot day of travel.
15. I am looking forward to transformative relationships, new friendships, the space to write, reflect, listen, and share.
16. Today, I sit with the joy of anticipation.

Literature creates imagination, imagination can change war

- Bei Dao